


Care (I'm Not Scared of Love)

by euhemeria



Series: And, In Sign of Ancient Love, Their Plighted Hands They Join [40]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Gardens & Gardening, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2019-04-23 16:17:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14336292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euhemeria/pseuds/euhemeria
Summary: Even if curing things were Fareeha’s area of expertise, and not Angela’s, there is no guarantee that something like this could be fixed, could be done away with something so simple as good intentions.  Nevertheless, Fareeha has hope.  Someone must.Or,Fareeha knows better than to try and solve Angela's problems for her—but maybe, just maybe, she can help Angela help herself.





	Care (I'm Not Scared of Love)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pharamedic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pharamedic/gifts).



> i died so this fic could live
> 
> okay no jk but. i wrote actual fluff y'all. luckily nadine appreciates my effort bc fluff? not my forte
> 
> but for her. for her ill do it

For the most part, living with Angela is even better than Fareeha anticipated.  In many ways, she is better off for it; she sleeps easier with Angela at her side, she never wants for someone to talk to, and on the worst of days, there is someone to take care of her, to watch over her and ensure that she will be okay, even if she is not in the moment.  What drawbacks exist are few, and trivial—she can understand keeping the color palette of their bedroom muted, if too much sensory input worsens Angela’s anxiety, can sleep on a slightly softer mattress than she would like, can laugh off her girlfriend’s habit of waiting until the _last possible_ _day_ to do laundry.

But she absolutely _cannot_ stand how much storage space is forfeited to non-perishable food.

Frankly, there is no need to have so much of it, particularly when many of the items are things neither of them will eat, but Angela is insistent about it, is in this rare occasion unwilling to compromise, even raises her voice—not in anger, but with an insistence that carries with it a tinge of fear—when Fareeha suggests that they throw it out.  Given that the two of them have both made a concentrated effort to avoid yelling at one another (or slamming doors, or making any loud noises, for the sake of their comfort and peace of mind), that alone is enough to shock Fareeha into dropping the subject for a few months.

On some level, she is aware that Angela must have a reason for this, must have some motivation for such an irrational behavior, and such an emotional response, but she does not really think about what the cause might be—she knows well enough that probing at another person’s trauma often does more harm than good, and she is confident that Angela will tell her what it is that lead to this behavior, eventually.  Except for the rare bit of grumbling when she needs to reach past cans in order to retrieve their dustpan, Fareeha almost forgets about the food, most days.

_Almost._

Until, one day, during a heated discussion with several other members of Overwatch about the cost of war, of approaching peace through violence, Angela argues that it is not friendly fire which kills the majority of civilians, and no amount of careful aim can stop disruptions to trade, can save people from dying because of a lack of access to medicine, to _food—_

And then, it clicks. 

For the duration of the argument, Fareeha stays silent.

(Later, in their quarters, Angela confirms Fareeha’s suspicions while she is cooking the both of them dinner.  Like so many things, she spares no detail in describing it, relating the experience as if it were not her own, and Fareeha almost feels guilty when they finally eat, thinks twice before reaching for more bread; Angela, as ever, does not hesitate.)

Once Fareeha knows why it is that the food is there, it is no longer an annoyance, is instead a strange source of guilt for her.  Of course, she cannot blame herself for the existence of the issue, but she still feels as if she could do more, as if she ought to be helping Angela manage this better, somehow.

Try as she might, however, Fareeha finds herself without a solution; this is not something to be reasoned with, not something she can cure, and no healthier alternative comes readily to mind.  She does not give up on the problem, would never, but she does, after a point, divert her attention elsewhere.

It comes as a surprise to her, therefore, when Jesse of all people presents a solution.

(Perhaps it should not surprise her—Jesse did not survive the things that he did by being stupid, by not being _resourceful_ , but he has cultivated the sort of demeanor which encourages others to underestimate him, and Fareeha is not immune to it.)

They are talking about the Crisis—the first one, not the strange half-Crisis they find themselves in now—when he mentions an old tradition that many families revived, during those years.  _Victory gardens_ , he calls them, little patches of vegetables in everyone’s yard, so that they could feed themselves if need be.  He does not mean to suggest it as a solution to Angela’s problem; although he must know about it, from the time he and Angela spent as roommates in the early days, Fareeha knows better than to broach the subject with anyone without Angela’s permission, and the conversation the two of them are having is entirely unrelated.

No, he does not mean anything by the comment, it is to him only a memory, a whisper of the past, a reflection—but to Fareeha it is a revelation, an epiphany, a solution all at once.

 _Victory gardens,_ she thinks to herself, turning the words over and over in her mind.  She does not like the name, she decides, but the _concept_.  A guaranteed source of food, something Angela has control over, always—it could be a comfort, in place of the canned goods, could be a _healthy_ one, at that, one they could harvest year-round, not only freeing up space in their cabinets but bringing fresh produce to their table.  It is a hobby, too, and a good one; Angela needs to go outside more, and she enjoys watering the plants in the common room every morning, says it helps her clear her head, and this could do both of those things.

Of course Fareeha is not, herself, a good gardener.  If anything, she is a _terrible_ one; Angela entrusted her to look after the common room plants once and it was a mass casualty event (one which, Fareeha maintains, was not her fault—no one warned her about _over_ watering).  Someone else will have to tend to the plants when Angela is away on assignment, but Fareeha can worry about the specifics of that later.

First, she must research what produce is suited to Gibraltar’s weather, and if she finds the options unsatisfactory, consult with Mei about climate controlling the small garden area. 

Her research takes time and, when all is said and done, she decides to enlist Mei’s help—discreetly—if only so that she can have fresh dates.  All she tells Mei is that this is a surprise for Angela, and Mei, bless her, is kind enough to not pry any further.  Fareeha strongly suspects that this is because Mei is, at heart, a romantic, and therefore is enamored of the opportunity to be a part of some romantic gesture; if Satya were fond of surprises Fareeha does not doubt that Mei would do this sort of thing for her own girlfriend often.

Once the planning is done with, Fareeha finds that the second step—actually setting up the garden—requires considerably more effort than she imagined it would.  Although arranging for plants to be delivered is not difficult, nor is acquiring all the necessary tools, finding _time_ is a problem.  Both she and Angela know one another’s schedules well, so if she were to come to lunch one afternoon sweaty and covered in dirt her lover would ask her why that was the case, and if she tried to lie Angela would at least be suspicious, if not concerned.

(Neither of them is a very good liar, nor are they fond of doing so.  Usually it is for the best, but now it is vexing.)

One more purchase solves her problem: a pair of overalls, a few inches too short for her to wear herself, a dark denim to contrast with her own sunny yellow ones.

When she presents them to Angela at 07:00 on their day off, her girlfriend is _not_ pleased.

“Fareeha,” says she, voice thick with sleep, “It’s early.  Can’t your bad fashion choices wait?”

“No,” Fareeha replies, tugging the covers off of Angela, who is attempting to hide her head from the morning light with them.  “You’ll want us to do this now before it gets too hot for you outside.”  A pause, and then she adds, “And _you_ can’t critique my fashion choices, I’m half convinced you don’t know what color _is_.”

“What’s the temperature?” Angela asks her, choosing to ignore all comments about her wardrobe. 

“24 degrees,” Fareeha says, and tries not to laugh at how _offended_ Angela looks by the thought of what is, in Fareeha’s opinion, perfectly reasonable summer weather.

“That’s too hot,” says she.  “Can’t it wait?”

“Unless you’d like to wait until it’s 30 this afternoon, no.”  By the look on Angela’s face, she certainly does _not_ want to do that; Angela is always rather petulant first thing in the morning, and Fareeha thinks it quite cute.  “I got you a hat, if it’s any consolation?  Wouldn’t want you to get burned.”

The only reply from Angela is a half-hearted grumble, but she sits up and stretches with a yawn, legs over the side of the bed, and Fareeha knows she has won. 

Halfway through breakfast—shakshouka, chosen in the hopes that the spice will help wake Angela a bit more—her girlfriend is finally awake enough to ask her the important question of _what,_ exactly, the two of them are planning.  Fareeha only smiles, and tells her that the sooner she is dressed and ready the sooner she can have an answer to her question.

(In truth, the reason that this is a surprise is that Fareeha is worried that even this will not be enough to help Angela, and does not want to build her efforts up to be something greater than they are—an attempt to ameliorate, not to cure.  Even if curing things were Fareeha’s area of expertise, and not Angela’s, there is no guarantee that something like this could be fixed, could be done away with something so simple as _good intentions_.  Nevertheless, Fareeha has hope.  Someone must.)

“You know I don’t like surprises,” Angela tells her, but Fareeha recognizes a token protest when she hears one, and sees the little smile at the corner of her girlfriend’s mouth—perhaps Angela does not like surprises, or mysteries, but she must trust Fareeha, by now, that it will be worthwhile, even if she _has_ been asked to wake early on a Sunday, and to go outside during summer.

“You’ll like this one,” Fareeha reassures her—and that much she is certain of.  Even if this garden does not fix everything, even if it does little to assuage Angela’s anxieties about food scarcity, Fareeha knows that her girlfriend will like the surprise; Angela loves public gardens, and the comfort of a daily routine, and doing things, just the two of them together, particularly when said things have nothing to do with _saving people_ or _being shot at_ or _exercising_ , as most of their shared activities do.  Caring for a garden together (even if Fareeha is certain her influence will imperil the plants more than it will help them) provides an opportunity to combine several of the things her girlfriend likes, and so it will be no loss, even if it does not fulfill its original purpose. 

(And for all that Fareeha is _bad_ at gardening, she, too, enjoys it, enjoys the feeling of the soft earth beneath her hands and the sun at her back, enjoys the satisfaction—on the rare occasion her efforts bear fruit—of knowing she has _created_ something, has nurtured and grown something, enjoys being able to create life, rather than only protect it.)

Still, the closer she gets to revealing the garden, the more nervous Fareeha becomes; for all that she and Angela care for one another—and deeply—vulnerability does not come naturally to either of them, and when at all possible they both have a tendency to avoid asking for help, even when they _ought_ to.  Even the sight of Angela in slightly-too-large denim overalls, hair braided and broad straw hat atop her head, wrinkling her nose at Fareeha’s own attire ( _“It’s so… yellow”_ as if the color of Fareeha’s overalls itself were offensive) is not quite enough to distract from the anxiety, the worry of _have I overstepped?_

The five minute walk through the watchpoint is one of the longest of her life, therefore, but when they arrive at the garden—or, the not-yet garden, the patch of earth that will _become_ their garden—Fareeha knows her decision has been the right one, knows when she answers Angela’s question ( _Did you do all this for me?_ ), and when Angela turns and wraps her arms around Fareeha’s neck, hat hitting Fareeha’s forehead as she leans in for a kiss, knows because she realizes then her intent was never to _solve_ this for Angela, to try and remove her pain (as if trauma were ever so simple), never to try and push her into discussing something which cannot ever quite be put into words, but only to help Angela help herself.  That does not demand vulnerability from her girlfriend, does not require she share any more of this than she desires to, is simply a tool by which Angela _might_ address her own problems, at her own speed, and include Fareeha only as much as she is comfortable with.

When Angela pulls out of the kiss, rocking back on her heels from where she stood on her toes, she looks for a moment concerned, “It’s lovely,” says she, “Really but—I’m not forgetting something am I?”

“What?” Fareeha asks her, genuinely confused by the question.

“My birthday isn’t for months,” Angela says, “And our anniversary already passed so—”

“Oh,” Fareeha runs a hand through her own hair then, not nervous exactly but not entirely sure how best to proceed either, “No, no this isn’t—it isn’t for an occasion.”

“Well,” says Angela with a little laugh, “That’s a relief.  I assume we’re planting today?” Her gaze drifts as she says it to the little bench which is covered in seeds and small plants in temporary plots, along with what Mei ensured Fareeha was all they would need to plant and transplant their garden.

“Yes,” Fareeha confirms for her, “But you’re going to have to take the lead on that part since I’m not exactly….” She gestures vaguely, and hopes that Angela will know what she means.

“Yes, yes, you killed three succulents this year.  _I remember,_ ” Angela’s tone makes it clear that the offense, while forgiven, will not soon be forgotten.  “What do we have?  I don’t see any flowers, so unless you picked something that blossoms at a strange time of year this is going to be a very ugly garden.”

“It’s all edible, actually,” Fareeha says, “I had Mei help me so that we could grow a few things outside of their home climate, so we have the basic vegetables, potatoes, and tomatoes but also one or two nicer things.  I wanted dates, and I know you like damsons, so we have saplings of those.”

Angela laughs at that, and shakes her head as she does so, saying something about how Fareeha never does anything by half measures, as she turns to the bench to begin inspecting what will become their garden. 

For a moment, Fareeha stands still, watching and considering, still, how best to explain her choice of flora—and it must be a moment too long, because then Angela, gloves already on and sapling and trowel in hand, is calling over her shoulder, insisting to Fareeha with a teasing lilt that “Farms don’t plant themselves.”

“It’s a garden!” Fareeha insists, and does not say _like Jesse’s victory gardens_.

“ _Fareeha_ ,” Angela does not glance up from where she has knelt in the soil, digging a place for one of their saplings, “You could feed a family with this!  It’s hardly a garden.”

“That, ah, that was the idea, actually,” Fareeha could busy her hands with one of the many new plants, could use that as an excuse to look away, but she chooses not to, and although the wide brim of Angela’s hat obscures her face from view, there is no mistaking the way her head turns suddenly towards Fareeha at that statement, and it is not difficult to extrapolate from there her expression.

“It’ll take time,” Fareeha admits, “But in a few seasons the garden should be producing crops year-round.”

Because Angela is yet still, Fareeha squats down so they are eye to eye, “As long as we tend it,” she continues, “We won’t ever have to worry about running out of food.  _Ever._ ”

“ _Oh_ ,” says Angela, and Fareeha watches the realization break across her face.  She opens her mouth as if to continue and then abruptly turns her face away, bringing a hand up in a gesture Fareeha is certain is wiping her eyes.

(Angela hates to cry, and rarely does, unlike Fareeha who cries at sad things, cute things, and when she laughs too hard.  Therefore that Angela is tearing up now makes Fareeha—not anxious, quite, not uneasy, but something near to it.  She does not think she has overstepped, but no matter her intentions, she does not want to distress Angela.)

A moment passes, then two, before Angela turns around again to look at Fareeha and _smiles._ Her eyes are wet, a bit, and there is a smear of dirt across the bridge of her nose from when she wiped at her eyes, but she is undeniably, radiantly happy.

“Thank you,” says she, and then again, “Oh Fareeha, _thank you_.”  _I love you,_ she adds, and _it’s perfect,_ and a thousand other things that Fareeha cannot quite make out, because Angela has wrapped her arms around Fareeha’s neck and buried her face in Fareeha’s hair.

The angle is a bit awkward, leaning as Angela is to avoid crushing the newly planted sapling between them, so Fareeha cannot quite wrap her arms as tightly around Angela in response as she might like, but in truth, she cannot complain.

 Perhaps this garden will not fix everything—perhaps nothing can—but it is a place to start, and Angela knows, now, that Fareeha is here for her, will do as much or as little as she needs her to.  Together, they can learn to work through this, and all that follows.

**Author's Note:**

> and then fareeha did NOT kill all their plants. i swear she didnt. she only ALMOST did. the end
> 
> for the uninitiated: shakshouka is a fucking delicious arab/north african dish. FUCKING DELICIOUS. seriously try it if u havent. u wont regret it
> 
> also me... mentioning what things look like... even vaguely alluding to existing on a physical plane... sounds fake but okay
> 
> hopefully ur all doin okay <3


End file.
